Ignored
by Vieux
Summary: He stares at his brother, his parents, and his friends before realizing that they don't truly know him. / Implied past fujiryo, implied potential atotezu, eventual atoryo/ Warning: mention of substance abuse /


I'm kind of sad and bored so here is some overdramatic boring angst. Forgive my sins I suppose. And forgive the transition to present tense part way through the work. It's on purpose, I'm aware of it, and I like it. For the record lol.

Mood lightens up once the actual plot moves in.

/

He was the younger son.

The younger of two.

And of course, being anything _but_ the first son of Echizen Nanjirou was worse than being the third or fourth or even fifth son of any other normal man.

Because in Echizen Nanjirou's eyes, it all came down to merit. Age, height, style- none of that mattered when it came down to tennis because in the end, what the world -and Echizen Nanjirou himself- saw… was the scoreboard.

Nothing was ever _relative_ to Ryoma's father. There was no such thing as being "amazing for one's age" or "pretty good compared to others"; there was only being the best in the world, being number one.

So, Ryoma was always ignored. His eyes may have been the colour of gold, but he would forever remain silver in his father's eyes. And, in the psychological realm of the elder Echizen, silver and bronze were the same. The same as fools gold or paper or tin, that is.

Younger. Tossed aside in favour of his own glorious half-brother who, at the age of 20, was on track for his third grand slam, scheduled to belt the last of his four necessary wins on Wimbledon over the summer.

So naturally it didn't matter that Ryoma, at the age of 8, was winning the U.S. boys' U14 category every single year, or that at the age of 14, was going to play as one of the youngest Japanese players at Wimbledon. No matter how many dents he would make in the piece of gold that was his brother, he would still be outshined. Because between a pretty piece of silver (not that he was pretty) and a dented piece of gold (not that his brother was dented in any way, not yet), even a fool would know to choose the gold.

/

Seigaku took him under their wing.

At first he was delighted.

He was delighted by their "ooos" and "ahhhs" every time he revealed a new trick, or showed a new move. He reveled in their shining eyes that held him up on an eternal platform of reverence.

He was so happy.

But Tezuka.

Tezuka was the ultimate x, the unknown, unpredictable, and unforeseen variable.

 _You must be the pillar of Seigaku_.

When Tezuka returned from Germany, Ryoma was thrust back into the ruthless tides of reality once more. He saw the truth. It wouldn't matter what he did or how he played because Tezuka was there _first_. Tezuka was in front of him and always would be, even when Ryoma tied their scores, or when he finally pulled ahead.

And here he learned that the scoreboard was everything, yet also nothing.

When he finally learned to let go of the numbers and to immerse himself in the only thing he had ever loved, he had hit another wall of steel that was even more insurmountable than the one in the past.

Perhaps his brother and his age had been a tall, tall wall, but they were a wall of hay that could eventually be easily torn down by his burning fire of ambition.

This wall of emotion was a wall of brick that would never budge, no matter how bright he burned or how hard he pushed.

/

He found a twisted recognition in his solitude.

When he was alone, it was easier to think. Easier for him to see a perfect distorted reflection of his imperfect self. Easier to remember and forget and change.

"Excuse me."

He turned.

"I-I saw your match the other day."

He nodded.

"It was amazing!" The girl blurted out. She had long brown braids and big, doleful, animated eyes that reminded Ryoma too much of the innocence that he once had. She would be _eaten alive_ in his world. In any world, actually, asides from the sheltered one that her grandmother had oh so carefully woven for her.

And for once, he felt something tug at his heartstrings. Lightly. Gently.

/

He had rejected her.

 _I'm so sorry._

He'd rejected her, but on his knees in the shower trembling and panicking, fingers too shaky to turn off the water, he couldn't help but feel that he was being more impacted by his own words that had tumbled coldly out of his own mouth more than she would ever be.

 _It's not me, it's you._

Lies. It was him, it was always him. It was never her.

And on those days where his palms were too clammy and his fingers were too clumsy as he fumbled for his respirator, he wanted.

He wanted to cry.

He hadn't cried in more than fifteen years. He could barely remember the ghosting feeling of liquid dripping down the lashes of his eye and staining the dryness of his cheeks with splotches of wetness. His father had never seen him cry.

But these days, he knew there was something wrong with him because no matter how hard he wanted to, there was nothing. He had no tears to cry. He had to sorrows to dispel. He had nothing. He was nothing. He would be nothing.

/

This time the tug is hard. And ridiculous. And not loving at all.

More raging and infuriating.

"Ore-sama demands that you return his racket immediately. This is no joke, you insolent brat."

"It's my racket, you stupid Monkey King," Ryoma snaps, moments away from jumping the other boy and beating him so small that he would be equivalent to the pulp in Ryoga's favorite orange juice.

Which, by the way, is from concentrate.

"Ore-sama believes it is his racket. If you wish to also have a racket of this quality and aesthetic, ore-sama encourages you to go out and purchase one yourself instead of stealing ore-sama's."

Ryoma stares. "Excuse me? You take _my_ racket, and accuse _me_ of being the frugal one? It's obviously just the fact that you, dear monkey king, are too stingy to purchase _your_ own."

The other boy looks shocked. "How dare you accuse ore-sama of.. stinginess! Frugality! What is this world? Do you not recognize ore-sama?" He gives Ryoma a look that reads something along the lines of "what preposterous nonsense are you spouting".

Ryoma scowls.

The other boy scowls.

Finally…

"Ore-sama has a proposal. How about-"

"No, I don't swing that way, I'm sorry. We cannot get married. Gay marriage has not yet been legalized here after all." Ryoma receives nothing more than a horrified stare.

"What ore-sama _meant_ to say was that he had an idea."

Ryoma nods. A signal to continue.

"Ore-sama has brought other rackets. As such, ore-sama proposes that a game be played to the point where there is a clear victor. The victor will get to keep the racket."

Ryoma's lips curl into a purely predatory grin. This will be fun. For him, that is. But first… he needs to up the stakes _just a bit_. "Why play if it's not to win? Go big or go home. Loser will treat the winner to Ponta for the rest of the month." The clock chimes and they are both reminded that it is only the third of April.

"Fine, ore-sama accepts. But Ponta? Ore-sama does not see the value in ingesting such plebian garbage. He proposes it be changed to a five-course meal at the Gerradio. Ore-sama enjoys Italian."

Ryoma raises an eyebrow. "Too late. You already agreed." He rolls a tennis ball in the palm of his left hand before spinning the racket.

The boy sighs, before grudgingly holding out his hand. "Atobe Keigo. Smooth."

Ryoma's grin widens. "Echizen Ryoma. Rough."

(After the first round, upon Atobe's assistance and Ryoma's pride, the deal does end up changing to five course meals, but this time at any restaurant because Ryoma really does not care for any Italian cuisine.)

/

It was beyond scary.

It was terrifying.

It was terrifying how, in a time span of a mere three weeks, Ryoma knew more about Atobe then he did about his own parents. Sure, the things he knew weren't exactly significant; knowing that Atobe was right handed, or that he had a dog named beat and attended King's elementary school in England weren't life-saving pieces of information.

And sure, knowing that his horoscope is a Libra and that he prefers Yorkshire pudding to all Japanese food but roast beef isn't information that reveals a great deal about one's character.

But at least he knows them.

At least he knows things that are somewhat if not eternally constant, and will stay the same long enough for him to remember them. He cannot remember the last time he looked his mother in the eye.

Nor the last time he saw them for that matter, considering they were busy accompanying Ryoga on his mission to conquer the world.

Also known as playing the French open.

/

They move to _America_.

 _Without_ him.

He knows he should have expected it. To be honest, they _did_ ask him if he was alright with it. They even offered him a choice and a plane ticket.

But having a first class plane ticket was not the same as having a place in the perfect little family of three that was oblivious to the struggles of the outside world. And its outside people. In that case, he would rather not have the ticket. Which is exactly why he rips it up the next day and tells his parents that he's changed his mind- that he would rather not go, lying under the pretense that his ticket "blew away in the wind", when the only things blowing away are the ashes of the scraps he burned later in his fireplace.

It's surprising, though, that the first thing- or person- he thought of was Atobe. Atobe Keigo, a wealthy bastard who had once threatened to sue Ryoma for improper manipulation of his name (Ryoma defended himself by saying that Atobe had a dislike of _arthropods_ , not _monkeys_ ).

He calls Atobe late at night when his parents are gone and he is accompanied only by the sound of Karupin's breathing. His fingers clench. "Hey."

"Ahhn? It is 3 am. Ore-sama is not in the mood for a game at the moment."

"I know."

"…"

"…"

"Ore-sama would like to get his beauty sleep."

"Hn."

"…"

The line is silent on both ends.

Finally, "…So do you need anything?"

Just hearing Atobe's voice is making his eyelids droop. "Hmm… Not…particularly," he mumbles.

The period of silence this time is too much for Ryoma and he can no longer hang on as he sinks deep into the world of his demons and angels.

"Why did you call?"

"…Hello?"

"Oi, brat!"

"Are you still there?"

Atobe spits out questions demandingly wondering whether he should go pay the Echizen house a visit until he hears the faint snoring coming from the other end of the line.

Oh.

He almost laughs. The stupid brat.

/

They're in the room that opens to Atobe's private courts.

"We had a deal though."

Atobe groans. Ryoma knows that he's just being difficult for the sake of it by now. But he doesn't know why he doesn't stop. "Remember, since it was a tie, you're keeping the racket and treating me to a five course meal every week."

Atobe glares.

"Glaring isn't going to help you. I could have been a mean person and kept it at every day. I even changed it to only Fridays and Tuesdays." Ryoma grins and fingers the button on the edge of his coat.

"You'll have to dress formally and wear actual clothes," Atobe tries, glancing distastefully at Ryoma's ripped black jeans.

"That's fine. I own a nice suit."

Atobe groans again. "Ore-sama is meeting with a personal acquaintance."

"Doesn't matter," Ryoma sings.

But when they reach the restaurant, Ryoma wishes that he had let Atobe change his mind.

It's not the uncomfortable stuffiness of the air or the itch by the suit tag; it's the fact that, there, sitting in a mahogany chair and waiting as angelically patiently as ever, is Tezuka Kunimitsu.

Ryoma walks out of the restaurant (really, it's more stumbling) and ignores Atobe's voice asking him where the hell he's going as he enters the nearest convenience store and slides to the ground behind one of the shelves wondering what he ever did wrong to the lord for him to be punished in that way.

/

"You left to buy cigarettes."

"…"

"Echizen Ryoma, the famous second son of great tennis prodigy Echizen Nanjirou, was seen at a local Japanese convenience store trying to purchase a pack of cigarettes. While Echizen is free to do whatever he pleases, we question the safety and legitimacy behind his actions. Is he even old enough to be in the possession of such substances?" Atobe raises an eyebrow and slaps the newspaper down onto the table. The headline glares at them.

"You have got to be kidding."

Ryoma doesn't respond, just stares emptily at his eyes in the reflection of the glass coffee table. He can see a reflection of the silver face of his watch. It's stopped working, just like him.

"…Are you even old enough?" Atobe sinks onto the couch next to Ryoma.

"No. They wouldn't let me buy them."

"Why did you want to in the first place?" Atobe's voice is more serious than Ryoma has heard in a long time. But then again, they haven't known each other for very long. What would he know?

Ryoma reminds himself to breath. "It was… for someone else. I remembered something else that I had to do. It was pretty important."

"Yes, it must have been," Atobe responds scathingly. "Considering you ran out on our dinner."

Here, Ryoma flinches a bit. "Yeah, sorry about that. You can consider your debt repaid then. You don't have to buy me dinner anymore."

Atobe cocks a brow. "It's only the middle of the month, brat."

Ryoma shrugs. "I feel like being nice."

"You're _never_ nice."

Ryoma snorts. "Fine, maybe I have personal motives then, ok? Maybe I don't want to feel bad accepting your… _gratitude_ like a charity case. There, happy?" He stands up and picks up his tennis bag, pocketing his keys. "I have to go train."

Atobe stands up. "Ahn, kicking ore-sama out so soon?" He politely ignores the mentioning of Ryoma being a charity case.

"You're welcome to stay if you want. Just don't expect anyone else to be here. You can wallow in your narcissism alone."

"And what about your parents, when will they be back?"

"….Around 8 I suppose," Ryoma lies, checking his watch. "You could stay until then, I suppose, but you would be sitting in the dark alone."

Atobe rolls his eyes. "Ore-sama can sense when he is not welcome."

Ryoma doesn't say anything as he steps out of the door and waits for Atobe to exit as well before locking it. He tugs his white cap further down over his eyes and walks away.

/

Atobe is sure that he has missed something. Or done something to upset a certain boy.

"Ore-sama assumed we would be continuing from where we left off in our previous game yesterday."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Ryoma mumbles into the receiver, "I was busy. And I have to take Karupin to the vet today. Maybe next week?" he suggests.

"…If you say so, brat."

Ryoma hangs up. Taking Karupin to the vet. He scoffs. The cat nuzzles against his heck before batting at his hands to remind him that lying is not good. Lying is bad.

And yet he knows that he will continue to do it anyways.

He hasn't left his house in days. Hell, he hasn't even gotten out of bed. He blames the heat, but subconsciously knows that it's him. _He_ doesn't want to do anything. Nothing is truly stopping him.

With that thought in mind, he sighs. May as well go play some street tennis. He knows courts that are so run down, there is no _way_ Atobe would _ever_ show up there. Grabbing his tennis things, he leaves the house.

"Smooth or rough?"

"Rough."

It is his fifth game that day and he feels as if he's on a perpetual high. It's going to be his fifth win. He knows it is.

"Hey! Do you wanna play doubles with us?" A voice calls. Ryoma turns and realizes that the question is directed at the person he's about to play. He rolls his eyes.

The person grins. "Yeah sure, I'm game."

Ryoma resists the urge to scoff. Now he'll have to find another opponent.

"Hey hey, now now, don't ignore this little one here." An arm wraps around his shoulder as a broad-chested male leans in a bit too close for Ryoma's liking. "What do you say, wanna have a nice match?"

He isn't sure what prompts him to agree (he never plays doubles), but he does. And it's fun.

The guy smiles. "Hey hey, not bad for a high school brat like you. Listen, my mates and I have this regular hangout spot in the alleyway right there." He jerks his thumb backwards. "If you're ever free, you can always join us." The last few lines are uttered in a tone barely louder than a whisper.

/

The next day he finds himself dressed from head to toe in black, walking towards "the spot". The air is thick with the smell of drugs, alcohol, and smoke, but the way the older boys look at him ignites a fire deep within his heart that refuses to be quenched.

After all, even bad attention is better than no attention at all.

/

"Hello."

Ryoma doesn't look up from the magazine he's been holding emptily in his fingers for the past quarter of an hour. "Hey."

"That's no way to greet an old friend now, is it?"

With that one line, Ryoma knows that Fuji Syuusuke means business. But he decides to ask anyways. Formalities. "Did you need anything?"

Fuji pulls out a chair and waves over a waitress. "A cup of black coffee please, with two shots of expresso." He turns back to Ryoma. "There isn't a point dancing around like this anymore, I suppose. Let's drop all pretenses, shall we?"

Ryoma lays down the magazine he holds. "Whatever you want."

Fuji _smiles_. "I know where you go."

He isn't sure whether to feign innocence or to confess to his sins, but ends up choosing the latter because he knows Fuji isn't bluffing. "Ok."

"They're not the right crowd."

"And who are you to determine that for me?"

Fuji opens his sapphire blue eyes, a serious expression covering his face. "As your prior teammate, photographer, and _boyfriend_ , I _will_ withhold the right to _advise_ you. Whether you wish to take that advice or not, well, that I shall leave up to you, yes?"

Ryoma's shoulders tense as he racks his brain for a response. Suddenly, the scene of Atobe and Tezuka sitting together in a posh restaurant slips back into his mental bank of memories. "That's fine. I'll keep it in mind. You might want to start giving advice to Tezuka about his food choices though- I hear he's been particularly into the downtown French restaurant which a certain monkey frequents." He stands up and leaves without bothering to finish the rest of his cheap tea.

The kind boiled with artificial leaves that result in a bitter, tongue-curling aftertaste.

/

Atobe finds Ryoma, red-eyes, pounding head, and all, leaning against his (Ryoma's) door. In fact, the sight almost sends him into cardiac arrest. "Why on earth are you sitting on the ground outside of your own house?" Atobe exclaims.

Ryoma, per usual, doesn't bother looking up. "Locked myself out. Waiting for the…" He pauses to toss his cigarette stub into the bushes nearby. "…The locksmith, I think it's called. Or maybe it's the blacksmith? No, those are from massive online gaming platforms…" He sighs and reaches into his pocket for another cigarette, only to find the case empty. Already?

Atobe reaches across and snatches the lighter from his other hand before bending down so that they're eye-to-eye. He grabs Ryoma's chin and tilts it slightly higher, examining him closely. He sniffs the air. "Drugs."

The line is simple and clear, but the weight it bears is undeniable. "Hm? What drugs?" Ryoma laughs, half-heartedly struggling to take his lighter back. "I'm waiting for the locksmith. Not the blacksmith. Not that blacksmiths do drugs."

Atobe stares at him with a look that almost seems to convey… a form of pity, before shaking his head. "How ridiculous. The press will have a field day out of this, you know."

"Hm." Ryoma roots around his pants pocket; but when he finds it empty, he realizes that he can't remember what he was looking for in the first place. "Hm." And then he looks down and finds that his fingers are trembling. Or is it just his gaze that's shaking?

Atobe's frown deepens. "How much have you smoked?"

Ryoma just laughs and for once he feels so free and raw and elated that he lets go of all his worries, his stresses, his tears- he lets go of the light that blinks in front of his eyes and the last thing he remembers is feeling himself being lifted up by Atobe's strong arms.

He wonders if he's finally flying.

/

He wasn't flying.

He knows this because he wakes up in a white-walled hospital room that smells like chlorine and bleach and all those other substances that he's come into contact with the past few days.

Somehow, he knows that Atobe is speaking with the doctor to his side, but no matter how hard he tries to crane his neck or turn his head, a metaphorical lead weight holds him in place. He struggles for a bit, before letting go and being dragged back into the realm of his dreams.

He catches a few phrases here and there.

And even one re-occurring one.

Overdose.

/

Atobe is right.

Stacks and stacks of newspapers are printed with his face on the front cover, detailing his difficulties with addiction and rehabilitation. Most of the time, he can't read the words on them properly. They float off the page and jump at him, making him wonder if he's suddenly become dyslexic.

"I'm so sorry sir, but there is nothing I can do if he doesn't open up."

Atobe is visibly agitated. "Ore-sama hired you for a reason. Is even a half-decent job too much to expect out of a mere plebian?"

The female psychiatrist at least appears slightly guilty. "Once again, he's rather unlike most of our other patients. I've never seen someone so uncooperati- stubborn," she corrects herself quickly.

Atobe sighs and gets up from his seat. "Well then. Ore-sama shall deal with these matters himself. Open the door."

"S-sir, I'm not sure that's wise-"

"How dare a mere plebian such as yourself question ore-sama's decisions!"

"I-I'm sorry, sir!" she squeaks before scampering off to grab the room keys.

/

As he sits in the white chair, Ryoma wonders if it's going to be the same worker this time. They seem to have developed a habit of sending different people, in vain hopes that he'll open up to just one of them. He idly wonders if he's insane, mental, and fucked up, knowing that he's likely a mixture of the three.

The door opens.

"If you're here to tell me why I should have better communication regarding my issues, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave." His voice is dull.

"Of course not. In fact, ore-sama is here to tell you, brat, to _get over yourself_."

Ryoma looks up in poorly concealed surprise as Atobe sinks into the chair across from him.

And suddenly, just with that one line, his dam of held back sentences, emotions, words, and thoughts breaks, bringing with it a flood of words that he can't seem to enunciate properly. Atobe sits there, though, with the patience of a doctor who truly wants to help their patients.

Ryoma stumbles at first, but eventually reaches the point where he discloses information about everything. About Ryoga, about his deep and sincere hatred towards everything the older boy did- about his love for tea, the cheap kind, and about his insecurities.

He tells Atobe about Fuji- how their relationship was an ideal realm in the harsh reality of the world, and even about how one day Tezuka brought it all crashing down with a single sentence ("I was never over you").

He recounts his dreams of recognition, and re-tells his first introduction to the white powder that eventually began to dominate his daily processes.

He tells Atobe about how he always feels out of place. Momo has Kaidoh and Eiji has Oishi, but he's just there. Alone. Ignored.

When he looks into Atobe's eyes, he forgets about Tezuka and Fuji and the mess of reporters vying for his every glance. He forgets about the things that weigh him down, the things that stop him from flying.

Atobe sits.

And listens to his stories.

And watches all his tears.

And waits for him to be okay.

And when he finally finishes his tales with a single three-word confession, he knows that he's going to be okay.

As long as he isn't alone.

/

On a warm summer day, he steps out slowly onto the green grass of Wimbledon, blinking at the sun that glares into his eyes. It blinds him as he tries to answer interviewer questions about his health, his recovery, and his new sponsor.

As he prepares for his serve, he clutches the bright yellow fuzzy ball in his hand and glances, discreetly, towards the first box of the spectator stands where a certain king sits, clasped regally, with his utmost attention.

He serves and it's an ace.

And when he finally wins the game, he finds himself staring into the dilated eyes of his own brother who looks more empty, lost, and shell-like then Ryoma remembers.

He smiles, and says, "Winning a game is a good feeling. Not being ignored is a better one."

He feels Atobe's eyes trained on his back, and can only think about how amazing it feels to finally, finally be _free_.

/

End lol. I'm on a school trip so hopefully edited version will be up later.


End file.
